


Only a Good Word

by zeldadestry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-09
Updated: 2005-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:19:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the words are all we have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only a Good Word

**Author's Note:**

> Written for xylodemon's "I didn't get to go to TWH Ficlet-a-thon"  
> The prompt was from figliaperduta: Auror!Kingsley/Prisoner!Sirius, last chances

Each day he reminds himself of the good words, of the meanings living inside them.

Love is a good word. Maybe it is the best word. But love hurts too much. To think of love is to think of James, and how his body was still warm when Sirius found him. To think of love is to think of James, and then to wish for death, to dream of obliteration.

So he thinks of the other good words, instead. There is the word freedom. He can remember that one. It is being Padfoot and racing through the night, running wherever he wants. Freedom is being Padfoot, even now. When he is the dog, he is freer from the attention of the Dementors than any other inmate here.

Sometimes, contemplating his daily bowl of slop, a watery gruel which provides just enough sustenance to keep the prisoners alive, he reminds himself of words like dinner and dessert and sated. He recalls the taste and texture of medium-rare steak, of strawberries with clotted cream. He puts his hand over the concave hollow of his belly and remembers that good feeling of having eaten just a few more bites than he needed, of being full.

What are the other good words? Happy. Happy is a good word. Sometimes, he repeats a word, even if he can not find the image, the feeling, that belongs to it. There is a feeling called happy and it exists, even if he can not remember how it feels. If the word exists, then the feeling must exist also, so he must remember the word. He must repeat it and keep it close. If he does this, perhaps someday he can have the feeling again.

He tries to keep all the good words with him, but he knows he is losing them. Week by week, they fade.

There is a voice, a voice down the corridor, a voice he knows. That is a good voice, he thinks to himself. He is too weak to stand up straight, but he shuffles his hunched figure over to the bars, as quickly as he can. He knows that voice and when he sees the face that belongs with it, he opens his mouth and tries to speak. "Kingsley," he says, hoarsely, too quiet, and he holds onto the bars, braces himself and says it again, louder. "Kingsley."

Kingsley turns his head and their eyes meet. There is a moment's hesitation before he walks back and stands in front of the cell. "What do you want, Sirius?"

When was the last time he heard his own name? He wants to hear it again. Calling out to Kingsley was draining, and Sirius crooks his finger so that the man will bend closer, and he will be able to whisper. Whispering is easier. Kingsley does step closer, very close, but when Sirius opens his mouth to speak, he suddenly takes a large step back, disgust twisting up his face. Sirius remembers then that, like all of Azkaban, he smells of rot. After the initial shock, however, Kingsley steps towards him again, though not as close as before. He smells clean. His skin looks like it would be soft to the touch. It is all right here, in front of Sirius, close enough to touch, so many of the good words. Beautiful. He had forgotten that one, and here it is. It has returned to him, that wonderful word. He stares at Kingsley's face, determined to memorize it, so that he will never lose the word again. And yet, with Kingsley here, in front of him, he feels that the word is not enough. The word is only a word, and can only be solace when he is deprived of what the word represents. It is not the word that matters. No, it is this body, and he can not stop himself from reaching a hand forward and trying to touch.

Kingsley immediately steps back, avoiding contact, and without another word, another glance, resumes walking swiftly down the hall.

Sirius stands at the bars until he disappears from sight and the echo of the heavy metal door clanging shut dies away. Remember this, he tells himself. Keep the word, but most of all, keep the memory of his face. It may be the last glimpse of beauty you will ever know.


End file.
